


The Stuff of Nightmares

by Leviosally468



Series: Chronicles of a Witcher and his Bard [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: ...Or is he?, ...and fucking horrifying monsters, ...mostly?, ...or pour some bloody ale?, Anal Sex, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Banter, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon Compliant, Curses, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gal pal Yennefer, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geraskier, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Monsters, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Raising swords, Roach Ships It (The Witcher), Sunshiny days, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Ships It, raising Hell, will someone please toss a coin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24384079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviosally468/pseuds/Leviosally468
Summary: “An escort will accompany you to Rivia. I am trusting in your ratheruniqueabilities to carry out the task whilst leaving him unharmed. My men will return him here.” Bolek provided in a tone of voice that ensured there would be no argument about this condition. Nie’l’s smile became rather fixed as his green eyes held Bolek’s hazel ones. The mage fought a sudden urge to shift in his seat.Sequel to "We had words, and an aversion to silver" as Geralt, Jaskier and Yennnefer pick up the trail of the villainous mage, Bolek Sanz and his apprentice; witcher school drop-out Verin Alda.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Chronicles of a Witcher and his Bard [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724992
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hokay, so here we go on the next whirl-wind adventure! This chap is kinda short, but I desperately wanted to get started before my work week takes off so, anchors aweigh!
> 
> There some explizzle-muh-nizzle action after Bolek and Verin's scene for a few paragraphs until '(A short time later)' jus' so's ya know...and likely be the last for our poor boys for a while.
> 
> Also, a minor new baddie presents himself in this story, you may or may not guess what he is but I tried to be vague for effect...anyways, his name is pronounced like 'Nee-el' and it's a shortened nickname from the polish word 'Nieludzki', meaning 'inhuman'

Verin Alda sighed heavily as he lounged with his leg hooked lazily over the arm of his high-backed chair, fingers idly tracing its intricately carved crest, heavy with gilt. An empty mug of ale hung from his other hand as it lolled dangerously close to the floor tiles, threatening to shatter the earthenware stein. He swept a thick strand of black hair out of his face and allowed his dark, tilted eyes to flicker in turn between the man pacing before him and the door that lead into the antechamber beyond.  
  
“Perhaps he’s decided against your offer…” Verin drawled, picking at a loose thread in his tunic, “…gods know any job that doesn’t involve that puffed-up, overgrown butterfly likely takes precedence no matter how much coin you-- ” but the man pacing across the black marble tile of the chamber interrupted him;  
  
“He’ll come…” Bolek Sanz growled, sweeping around to stare back at Verin, his hazel eyes flashing a warning. Verin returned his own gaze to the ceiling. Bolek continued to look at his young apprentice for a moment longer, before the scrape of age-rusted metal grinding together caused him to turn instead toward the door.  
One of the guards was striding down the center of the chamber. He stopped several paces from Bolek and pressed a fist to his chest. A rustle behind the mage told him Verin had straightened in his chair, leaning forward interestedly now.  
  
“My lord, he is here.” Bolek schooled his features into a mask of authority as the burning tendril of a wicked smile threatened the corners of his lips. Bolek had come to trust very little in his life and guards were no exception. The less they or anyone knew about his plans, the better.  
  
“Show him in.” the mage said stiffly. The guard inclined his head once more and left. Verin huffed again from behind him.  
  
“I still don’t see the point of all this shit-washing…if you would just permit me to—”  
  
“Peace, Verin…the sooner you learn that certain matters require more delicacy than a simple slice of steel, the better. I’m doing this for _you_ …so we will do it _my way_ …is that quite clear?” Bolek’s voice faded into a dangerously silky whisper as he turned once more to Verin who lifted his chin defiantly, scowling back. The door creaked again, signaling the guard’s return. Another man strode before him now, and Bolek felt his eyes widen in spite of himself.  
  
There was no other word for it; the ‘man’, if he could even be called such, was _beautiful_ … _stunning_ …A shimmering flaxen crop of golden hair fluttered about his crown as though caught in a perpetual breeze; his eyes were the color of rich emeralds, and his pale flawless skin practically glowed in the ebbing late-afternoon sun that streamed through the keep’s high windows. He was lithe and willowy, but strong in build and carried himself forward with an arrogant self-importance, drinking in the scene of Bolek and Verin, who had risen, with an aggravatingly knowing smile. His hair slithered low, obscuring one of his deep green eyes as he inclined his head toward the mage. The guard behind him made announcements and left once more.  
  
“We are pleased to announce, we’ve decided to accept your offer.” The stranger crooned, perfect pale lips spreading in a malicious leer. Bolek swallowed thickly, attempting to summon a bit of moisture back into his mouth as he gestured toward a small round table off to the side.  
  
“Won’t you sit down? We have terms to discuss.” Bolek led the way, and Verin brought up the rear, eyes narrowed toward the golden haired new-comer.  
  
“So do you have a name, then, _demon?_...if not, I’m sure I can come up with something that is to your _liking_ …” Verin growled as they took their seats. The stranger’s smile didn’t falter one tick. If anything, it intensified.  
  
“We have adopted many names in the past…hopefully we need only assume one more…” the blonde’s confident tone wavered slightly, “but for now, you may call us Nie’l.” Verin remained standing as the demon who called himself ‘Nie’l’ slid gracefully into his chair and turned his attention to Bolek, who handed him a goblet of wine.  
  
“When can you be ready to leave?” Bolek said, harsh voice slicing through the thick tension between Nie’l and his apprentice.  
  
“If our price is agreeable to you…then we are at your service as early or as late as it please my lord…” Nie’l replied in a light, oily, almost _bored_ tone.  
  
“I will ensure it is done… _after_ …” The mage growled, raising his goblet and drinking deeply. Verin merely scowled between them, intent on maintaining the illusion that he knew what was going on even though had no idea what his master had bargained with to retain the services of a monster…he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know.  
  
“Excellent.” Nie’l replied, raising his own goblet. “Provisos?”  
  
“An escort will accompany you to Rivia. I am trusting in your rather _unique_ abilities to carry out the task whilst leaving him unharmed. My men will return him here.” Bolek provided in a tone of voice that ensured there would be no argument about this condition. Nie’l’s smile became rather fixed as his green eyes held Bolek’s hazel ones. The mage fought a sudden urge to shift in his seat.  
  
“We must wonder though…why retain our services if you have already deemed to take prisoners?” Nie’l asked softly, setting his goblet back down upon the marble surface of the table.  
  
“A rather necessary insurance policy I’m afraid. While I am hopeful your _efforts_ will go undetected…should he manage to divine your true identity, I will need to maintain a little…leverage…” Bolek trailed off, swirling his goblet and finally allowing a crooked twitch of a smile onto his lips.  
  
_“Really?_...” Nie’l mused, raising his pale eyebrows as comprehension dawned on his elegant features.  
  
“Everyone has their weakness…” Bolek mused, and swallowed again as a painful knot writhed in his gut.  
  
***

“Gods!-Fuck!-Yes!-Ger- _ALT!_...”  
  
Jaskier dug his fingernails into the soft earth as he spread his arms wide. He could feel a dampness seeping into the knees of his breeches that most assuredly meant they were being ground into the mud as well but he hardly cared as the pressure behind his groin grew to a fever pitch and he arched back, shoulders slamming into a heaving chest practically carved from stone as his head fell back onto the witcher’s shoulder. He continued to gasp and moan his praises as Geralt’s hips rocketed up and into him, decidedly hell-bent on fucking him blind.  
  
“…so what did we learn, Jaskier…?” The witcher directed his lust-soaked growl into Jaskier’s ear, and he shuddered magnificently. He whined as dinner plate-sized hands disappeared suddenly from his cock and he felt them instead grasp his hips, lifting him up and off of Geralt, and he ached from the sudden emptiness.  
  
“Gods, Geralt… _pleeeeaaaase_ ….”  


Geralt growled again and nipped the soft, sweat-moistened skin of his shoulder. He could smell how close his bard was, and that scent alone, coupled with the neediness in his voice was almost enough to tip him over the edge, but he forced himself to focus as he teased the head of his cock against the crack of Jaskier’s ass. Jaskier whimpered and squirmed, beckoning him back inside, but Geralt held him fast, teeth assaulting the back of his neck this time and eliciting a sharp breathy groan.  
  
“What…did…we… _learn_ …?” He punctuated each word with a subsequent nip to Jaskier’s skin that he thought would probably leave marks…he hoped they did.  
  
“Fucking, _FUCK Geralt!_ Okay, I _promise_ to take you with me next time but admittedly, you were the one who said he didn’t want to _COOOOMMMEEEOHFUCK!_...” Several birds startled, taking off in a cloud of feathers as Geralt slammed Jaskier’s hips back down and he pressed a hand to his back, bending him forward into the forest floor and raising up on one knee to gain better leverage.  
  
“S’only because I was waiting for you to beg for me to…t—t--… _ah, fuck_!” Geralt bit off a string of positively bestial grunts as his hips jerked erratically; the proverbial wall of his fourteen day celibacy crumbling fast as he summoned a final shred of wherewithal to stuff his hand between his lover’s legs and jerk him into their combined whirlwind of euphoria. He was suddenly hearing Jaskier’s renewed curses of _‘fuck me harder damn you’_ as though from far away, felt the hot spurt of release over his fingers, and desperately blinked stars out of his vision as he was hauled back to the present in waves, spilling a godsdamned _torrent_ into Jaskier’s aching depths as his body sagged forward.  
  
“Well- _fucked_ …” A small voice breathed from somewhere beneath him, and Geralt smiled.

(A short time later…)

Jaskier could feel the cramp in his cheeks; thought probably his jaw would eventually become fixed around the idiotic smile that invaded his face. But he couldn’t help it as he watched Geralt toss his head back, white mane of hair releasing a magnificent spray of water into the air. It was early summer and the days had been steadily creeping toward the realm of being considered ‘hot’ for weeks now. Jaskier crossed his arms under his chin, his lids drooping under the persistent warmth of the sun and watched from the lake’s edge as Geralt ducked under the water’s surface again. Fifteen seconds…he blinked a bit…twenty seconds…he rolled his eyes…thirty seconds…  
  
“Geralt! There’s no way I’m hauling your drowning ass out of there, so it’d _behoove_ you to at least show off in _stronger_ company!”  
  
Fourty-five seconds…he stood up, brow furrowed as he scanned the lake’s surface. He took a couple of hesitant steps forward and raised a hand to shield his eyes, looking around for ripples. He was only just properly dry, and _not_ looking forward to jumping in after rogue witchers. 

Just as his toes graced the edge, an almighty blast that sent a great dome of water at least eight feet high and equally as wide exploded upward. The witcher burst from the center of the deluge, drenching Jaskier from head to toe in a tidal wave of cold lake water and sand. He gasped and choked, spraying a mouthful of water into Geralt’s face and stumbling backward as the witcher roared with laughter. Jaskier gaped at the man as he shook his head rather like a dog, waves of mirth sending ripples over the vast landscape of lean muscle that made up his body.  
  
“Ohhhhhh-kay, I think that’s enough lakey time fun for you, you…wicked… _witcher_ …” Jaskier stammered, still trying to catch his breath as Geralt ran a hand through his dripping length of silver hair. Jaskier felt his knees weaken as pearly droplets of water ran in glistening rivulets over Geralt’s broad chest and shoulders. _Gods_ he could’ve thrown the brute right back down into the sand and fucked him senseless. As though he could read his mind, the witcher suddenly stepped towards him, a rather predatory look blooming on his face. Jaskier’s eyes widened slightly as comprehension surged like a shockwave from his brain into his feet and he stepped back.  
  
“Oooohhhh, no…no, no, noo, _no_ …Geralt, don’t you _dare_ …” And without a backward glance, Jaskier was running full-tilt down the beach as the witcher tore after him, laughing and yelling and knowing full well that although he was lighter and made for short sprints, he was no match for Geralt’s stamina. Soon enough, he found himself being hauled unceremoniously over the witcher’s shoulder, laughing into his backside and pounding him uselessly with his fists as the insufferable man strode back into the lake and dunked him in the water.  
  
The elongated rays of the late afternoon sun illuminated their camp as Jaskier sat upon a large fallen log, laying siege to Geralt’s hair as he sat on the ground between his legs, sharpening his blade.  
  
“Geralt…”  
  
“Hmmm…?”  
  
“I really didn’t think you would _want_ to come…I mean, of _course_ I would have been overjoyed if you had, but…I didn’t think you would find any interest in all that ‘scholarly musical blather’…those were _your_ words, Geralt…”  
  
“Those words were spoken by a stupid man who didn’t know in hind-sight that he would be missing his scholarly musi _cian_ for two fucking weeks.”  
  
Jaskier smiled as he ran a fine ivory comb through Geralt’s silver locks. He had really only intended to be gone for ten days; deliver his guest lecture at the university and then return to Rivia post-haste, but the situation with Nilfgaard had been growing steadily worse, and he had been waylaid as he made his way back south, and had found himself thanking the gods of the gods that he had been blessed with a tongue sharper that any Nilfgaardian sword ever dreamed, for it had been his only saving grace.  
  
The witcher slid his whet stone along the edge of his steel sword with a metallic rasp. Jaskier’s fingers began absently weaving delicate plaits that hugged the side of his scalp.  
  
“Those _will_ be gone by morning, Jaskier, or so help me…” But the stormy intent of his words was utterly ruined when Jaskier caught his eyes shudder closed, sword going loose in his fingers as his head tilted ever so slightly into his hands. Jaskier leered into the back of the witcher’s head and continued his work, pulling more strands between his fingers and creating elegant twists.  
  
“Geralt…” Jaskier spoke carefully as he worked, the urge to suddenly voice a rather delicate question that had been tumbling around in his mind during his flight south suddenly overpowering his resolve to let it lie.  
  
“Hmmm?” Geralt came to, hands resuming their focused efforts along the edge of his sword.  
  
“Geralt, do you…” he licked his lips nervously, “Do you ever worry…about…failing? In your work?...Do you ever worry about…” ‘dying’…he swallowed thickly as his brain finished what he couldn’t bring himself to speak aloud. The thought utterly terrified him. The whet stone’s slow and steady grind faltered…so briefly Jaskier thought for sure he had imagined it, and for a long moment it was the only sound as Jaskier’s fingers continued to gently weave through Geralt’s strands.  
  
“No.” Geralt murmured from in front of him, and the rasping of the whet stone intensified slightly. Jaskier’s fingers stilled.  
  
“Oh… _good_.” Jaskier felt the color drain from his cheeks and he suddenly hated himself for asking. He hastily resumed his ministrations, trying shake the numbness from his fingers.  
  
“If death is calls for me, then so be it. I won’t say I am ready…I thought I was once…” the quiet rumble of his voice was almost lost in the continued scrape of stone on steel and Jaskier’s ears pricked, straining to catch every word. “…but admitting worry is the same as admitting fear, and walking the path with the Reaper in your shadow is no way to live…No quicker way to your grave than living in a prison of fear over things you can’t control…” Geralt scowled at his sword as though daring it to mock him, his jaw clenching. He could feel Jaskier’s breath stir over the crown of his head, felt the bards fingers pause and drift to rest on his shoulders.  
  
“What _do_ you fear, Geralt?”  
  
The witcher barely drew breath, his hands stilling at last and when he finally turned, a heavy twist of sorrow marred his angular features. He forced himself to meet the watery blue gaze above him, and when he spoke, the words came from deep in his chest, ripped from him as though speaking them caused him great pain.  
  
“That even if I can protect you now…the inevitable passage of time will eventually lead you to a place I cannot follow…” A more selfish and hypocritical statement there surely never was…Geralt thought savagely, but he no longer cared. It was the truth. He had tasted fear for the first time that day on the side of the mountain, clutching Jaskier to his chest…so much blood. Time may be a slower death, a less painful death…but it was as certain as the sunset, and Geralt wanted desperately to stop it. Tears threatened Jaskier’s lids as he slid off the log he had been perched on and settled himself in Geralt’s lap, taking his face in his hands. A thousand words chased themselves around his head, each one struggling to be the right thing he should say in a moment like this…each one sounding feeble and empty, and instead what tumbled out was;  
  
“I’ll just get cracking on an immortality potion then, shall I?” He winced inwardly, berating himself for his horribly deflective humor but the strong curl of the witcher’s arms around him drove the rest of the thoughts from his mind as he melted forward into the embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if ‘Baywatch’ comes back, think they’ll be interested in footage of Geralt running in slow-mo on some beach?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oi...I hope this chapter isn't complete shit...it was hard to write...idk why...it was a struggle...ohthefuckwell...I hope y'all enjoy anyway!

The Rectoress of Aretuza breathed deeply, forcing a lid over the flutter of emotions that stirred in her chest and clenched her hands into fists at her sides, stilling the nervous way in which they smoothed her skirts. She strode intentionally, but not too quickly down the hall toward her study, having dismissed her girls early for the afternoon…on account of a very important visitor. She reached her hand to the brass doorknob and paused, schooling her features into somewhat passable calm serenity before letting herself in. Immediately, she felt her cool resolve swiftly melting away in spite of herself under the velvety violet gaze that smiled at her from behind her own desk. She steeled herself, lifting her chin a bit higher even as the curl of a smile threatened the corners of her lips.  
  
“Yennefer…” The door clicked shut and she took a step forward, her turquoise skirts slithering around her ankles. She forced her hands to relax, willed them not to tremble. Yen pushed back from the desk and stood, swaying elegantly around the corner and without further overture, flung her arms around her shoulders, drawing her in.  
  
“Tissaia…” She crooned, and The Rectoress thought her ribs might crack if not from the strength of the embrace she was more than willingly encased in; then from the force with which her heart hammered against her chest. She slid her own arms around the other woman’s back and held her tightly.  
  
“It has been a long time my girl…” Tissaia pulled away to look her in the face and swept a stray strand of wild black hair behind her ear. “…you are looking well, and the chair of a mentor suits you very well indeed.” Her smile widened as her eyes flickered back to the desk.  
  
It was a fine afternoon as the two women sat at their ease at a small table nestled within the eye-popping magnificence of Toissant’s largest botanical garden. It was a rare and beautiful occasion that Tissaia took the opportunity to enjoy places not of sharp steel-grey stone and mortar and a seemingly endless twilit darkness. It felt good to be properly _warm_ and _dry_ again. She studied her former pupil over the rim of her intricately carved teacup; there was certainly a lot on the younger mage’s mind, but for the moment she opted to delve into their reunition more delicately.  
  
“How are things with the young girl? Is she as strong as we thought?” She smiled again, watching amusedly as Yennefer drowned her tea with cream until it could hardly be considered such anymore.  
“Piglet…” She sniffed under her breath and Yen scowled at her, and soon enough they were both laughing. Clearing her throat and whisking away a tear of mirth, Yen recovered herself;  
  
“She is strong…and she is learning quickly. She’s taken to portalling quite well; in fact I’ve never felt more like a mother than I do now. Imposing restrictions and exacting curfews with the stern promise of various punishments if the rules aren’t followed.” Tissaia snorted;  
  
“Reminds me of someone else I know…” Yennefer shot her a reproving look and huffed a sigh;  
  
“…Doesn’t help that Geralt turns into a soft-hearted lummox every time and I inevitably end up being the evil witch…” Tissaia’s twinkling laughter filled her ears again and she rolled her eyes.  
  
“I am glad you both have rediscovered some semblance of unity…” The Rectoress said gently with a meaningful flash of her liquid sky-blue eyes, radiating an empathy that words didn’t seem quite appropriate for. Yen held her gaze for a long moment before her eyes slid away, suddenly interested in the gently fluttering wash of color of a butterfly’s wings as it picked its way across the head of a magnificent orange blossom.  
  
“The fates guide us…we are but pawns…” The younger mage whispered softly, retuning to her jasmine flavored cream and taking a long draw.  
A silence stretched between them for several minutes and Tissaia breathed deeply, looking out over the garden and allowing the scent of hundreds of flowers to fill her nostrils. Her hair was pinned loosely and a stray strand whispered free of her ear as a light breeze kissed her face, cooling her temples in the warm heat of the afternoon. She had abandoned her rigid, form-hugging, long-sleeved gown in favor of a dusky rose-colored affair with loose billowing sleeves that she could properly breathe in. She could feel Yen’s eyes on her, but she didn’t turn as she swept the wayward strand of hair back into place and spoke;  
  
“While it goes without saying that I always enjoy your company, Yennefer…we both know you have sought me out for other reasons than idle chatter…” She turned finally back toward the younger mage, catching the way an eyebrow climbed defiantly up her forehead.  
  
“Equally, I will remind _you, Rectoress_ , that a friend need not possess an ulterior motive to seek out another…however…in this particular case…guilty as charged.” She trailed off with a resigned look and Tissaia grinned.  


The Rectoress listened attentively as Yennefer recaptured the details of her run-in with Verin Alda and Bolek Sanz, her features growing stony at the mention of the ex-communicated mage’s name, but she said nothing as Yen went on. She told her about the mine, and the prisoners and their confrontation at the manor house and about how both Verin and Bolek had escaped. As her story drew to a close, Yen allowed the silence to stretch between them, but Tissaia remined silent, eyes closed and brow knit in concentration.  
  
“I must find them, Tissaia…I need your help. If you know anything about Bolek…” Yen trailed off as her mentor’s eyes slowly opened once more. When she spoke, her voice was low, and cautious;  
  
“Bolek Sanz was always audacious and tyrannical, even as a young mage. His lust for power never sated, and he absorbed his education like a drought-starved desert, always wanting more. As he grew in power, he grew rebellious and contemptuous. He was very nearly denied a court position altogether. I find it interesting that your little run-in happened in Kovir...very few remember it, but that is where he first served in the summer capital for a time. He was exiled from the country not two years into his service after being tied to an alchemical incident that involved the destruction of his lord’s summer manor.” Tissaia paused and sipped her tea fretfully, eyes catching Yen’s worry-soaked amethyst orbs. “After that, his reputation spread like a fire through The Continent, and when he was dragged back to Aretuza before the council, they gave him an ultimatum…a final chance to avoid termination…that was when he joined The Witcher program. I need not tell you that he remained as cunning and cruel in his authority there as ever, but the control over him was far more strict…leaving little room for chaos to ensue…though perhaps the influence of so many strong-willed _women_ finally stilled his arrogance enough to—”  
  
“Women?” Yen cut in, a curious look replacing the worry on her brow. Tissaia pursed her lips thoughtfully for a moment.  
  
“The School of the Manticore, Kaer Treddmohr, in Zerrikania…it primarily trained women…a very long time ago.” Tissaia lapsed into silence, allowing the other woman to process all she had said.  
  
“That must be it…” Yennefer whispered softly. Eyes once fixated on her empty cup snapped back to Tissaia, “They _must_ be hiding there…that trip would take _months_ …” She sighed dejectedly, hating the fact that portalling somewhere she’d never been with any hope of accuracy was nigh impossible. At these words, a knowing smile nearly split Tissaia’s face.  
  
“You will find I still have much left to teach you even now my friend.”  
  
***  
  
Bolek shielded his eyes against the jagged sun-kissed peaks that loomed to the east, bringing with it a promise of another scorching day. To his left, Nie’l stopped and turned, making to swing into his saddle.  
  
“Seven days?” Bolek questioned as a handsome mask of creamy flawless skin alight with clever emeralds gazed down at him.  
  
“Once we find them...” Nie’l’s drawling voice affirmed as he wheeled his white stallion around, the animal was young and restless and required a firm hand.  
  
“I will find you in three days’ time.” Bolek said, the hint of a warning on his lips.  
  
“To check up on us? How thoughtful…” Nie’l sneered. With a last wink at Bolek, he took off in a clatter of hooves. Across the great stone bridge that led from the keep of Kaer Treddmohr and onto the west road he flew; time was of the essence.  
  
***  
  
Geralt breathed deeply, eyes fluttering open to gaze at the bright ceiling of green above him. Soft rays of morning sun already filtered through the thick trees and into the camp and the calls of the birds around him had steadily grown into a dull roar, effectively raising him from the dead of a good sleep. He rolled to the side, the image of his bard’s smooth backside already filling his head as he did, and so it came as a bit of a disappointment when his eyes beheld nothing but air and his nose breathed in Jaskier’s lingering scent. The creases left behind by his body were still warm, and a distant humming told Geralt the bard had already risen. Throwing back the wool coverlet, Geralt snatched his tunic from a nearby branch and hauled it over his head before tugging on his boots. He rose and followed the collective sounds of Jaskier’s idle humming and smells of cooking around to the side of the large boulder that blocked out the other side of their camp, grinning slightly at the domesticity of it all. He stopped dead; eyes flickering from the fire, to Roach, and finally landing on Jaskier whos back was to him, hums transitioning instead into a cheerful whistle as he wove bloom upon bloom of yellow flowers into Roach’s long tail. Her mane already sported hundreds of the damn things. Geralt could feel his chest rumbling…his own hair was bad enough.  
  
“Jaskier, what the fuck?” He growled, and the bard yelped, starting as he spun on the spot, dropping several of the flowers he had been holding.  
  
“Ah! Geralt! Pleasant morning!” Geralt merely continued to glare at him. Jaskier chewed his lip, dry-washing his hands a bit nervously and _gods_ , Geralt found himself already fighting the urge to smile.  
  
“You’re probably wondering about _this_ …” The bard indicated Roach’s intricate plaits with a jerk of his thumb, “…A little self-indulgent, I must admit, but when the poor girl told me you _never_ let the farrier use the glitter hoof polish…”  
  
“Jaskier…”  
  
“…She’s still a _lady_ after all, Geralt…”  
  
“Jaskier!” Geralt had closed the distance between them as the bard had jabbered on and he now stood close enough for their noses to almost touch, glowering into his face. He twisted a fist into the front of his creamy tunic with a growl and Jaskier winced, turning his head to the side, preparing for the worst. Instead, Geralt cradled his jaw with his other hand, drawing his face back around and kissed him fiercely. The witcher grinned then as he loosened his hold on the front of his bard’s shirt, drinking in his still-puckered lips and wide, crystalline eyes. He withdrew his hands and gestured instead to his own head where a myriad of twists and braids still remained.  
  
“These… _out…now_.” He smirked, turning and striding toward the fire to sit, oblivious to the mockingly overdramatic millitaristic salute Jaskier thrust at his back.  
  
***  
  
There had been talk of a Cockatrice in Rivia; So to Rivia they had gone. Next there was a rumor of a Kappa in Scala; So to Scala they went. It was going on a month now that they had traveled the road together. Geralt’s quickly growing reputation and time-tested skill, coupled with Jaskier’s nightly recaps and praises to the drunken masses had both of their purses full to bursting, and none too soon, as high summer approached. The days had grown miserably hot and the nights hardly less so. Now there was talk of a Chimera in Spalla; So, to Spalla they rode, the cost of a room at the inn no longer in question in the face of the Lyrian summer and full wallets.  
  
Jaskier sighed contentedly and plunked his mug of cider back down upon the table and pulled his notes closer. ‘…fairy…weary…query…merry… _marry_ …’ His quill skittered over the surface of the paper, collecting a list of likely words and stood poised over the last one as a smile curled his lips… _‘yeah right…’_ he chuckled under his breath, cheeks flaring as he continued, ‘…hairy… _very_ hairy…scary…extraordinary…’ He took another swig of cider and chanced a glance out of the tavern window; Geralt had left early this morning in search of the Chimera and the sun was now steadily sinking toward the western horizon. Though time meant very little when it came to the witcher’s work, it was very seldom that he rolled in later than supper-time and judging by the position of the sun coupled with a distinct growling in his gut, Jaskier knew that moment couldn’t be far off.  
  
“Another sir?” The round-faced bar maid bustled over to his table, smiling warmly and idly polishing a ceramic flagon in her hands.  
  
“Yes, please my dear…” He replied sweetly, pushing a few coins across the table. She inclined her head, turning back toward the bar when a thought occurred suddenly to Jaskier;  
  
“Excuse me…actually…I wonder if I could ask you something?”  
  
“Anything at all, sir…” The maid hummed, turning back and fixing him with an affable smile. Jaskier chewed his lip, carefully arranging the words in his head first; He doubted asking anyone if they had seen a madman masquerading as a witcher and travelling with his equally certifiable mage would yield him any answers and was just as likely to start a panic as anything else.  
  
“Have you had any questionable patrons in of late?”  
  
“No shortage sir, this close to Nilfgaard and what with the Blue Mountains to the east an’ all…” Jaskier swallowed, changing tactics;  
  
“You’ve seen my companion?” She nodded, “The stranger I speak of would have a similar build and way about him…but dark of hair and of eye…he travels with another man, a mage…tall and sinister…with eyes like acid, and a voice to match…inspiring fear as though forged out of a tale made to frighten children…” Jaskier’s voice had dropped to whisper and his eyes had slid from her face until they gazed, unfocused at nothing in particular beyond her left shoulder. The poor woman’s face paled, her smile faltering and her hands gripped the ceramic in her hands rather hard.  
  
“No one by that description through here…” She said roughly, and without another word she turned and strode back in the direction of the kitchens. Jaskier exhaled heavily, memories of Bolek and the mine fading. He had asked the same question at every inn and tavern they had set foot in since, to no avail. Guiltily, he pulled a couple more coins from his purse for the poor girl…he hadn’t meant to _scare_ her.  
  
***  
  
The man who called himself Nie’l smiled as he gazed down into the village of Spalla. His scent was strong now…picked up in Rivia; a heady thing of brandywine, lavender and sweet mint. It made his nose curl and the bile rise in his throat. He did not turn as three men joined him, fingers slithering over the hilts of their various weapons.  
  
“We have our orders…” He hissed, “Wait for my signal. After that, we have little care for how you choose to deliver him, so long as he is brought to the mage alive, is that understood?” Nie’l said silkily and the men around him grunted their assent. Booting his white stallion on, the group made their way slowly and carefully through the deepening twilight and into the city.  
  
***  
  
Jaskier stood upon the small raised stage within the tavern of _The Selkie’s Kiss_ inn, foot stomping and head bumping in time as he strummed through a wordless gigue. It was in a minor key; earthy, surreal, dark and lusty. Several patrons had taken to the center of the floor and were dancing vigorously. One of the guests had approached him earlier, producing a fiddle and offering to join him onstage and he would have quite enjoyed the accompaniment if it weren’t for the lingering knot in his belly, growing with each passing moment that his corner table remained steadfastly witcher-less. It was unlike Geralt to return this late, and it was beginning to gnaw at him. He caught the fiddler’s eye, signaling the last round through and as they milked out the last chord, surprising their onlookers with a heart-throbbing Picardy cadence that sent an electric chill through the humid haze of the tavern that was broken most poetically with a wave of applause and calls for more. Jaskier clasped the hand of his companion warmly, and made his excuses about ducking out for piss, but that he would be honored to indulge his talents for a second set.  
  
He inhaled deeply as he ducked out into the hot, humid night and made for the stables. His hopes weren’t exactly high, but he poked his head in anyway. True to the assumption that nonetheless soured his gut, there was no Roach to be found, but he cocked his head as a new set of velvet eyes appraised him from a corner stall. They had been at the inn for a few days and he had come to recognize most of Roach’s stablemates, the majority of them ordinary brown jobs of merchants. The fine snowy-white specimen that regarded him currently was certainly new, and likely the mount of a noble. He pulled the heavy wooden door closed behind him and approached the stall with an affectionate click of his tongue. Drawing level with the animal’s magnificent face, he swept a bow.  
  
“Good evening noble….er…” He ducked his head quickly to appraise the situation between the beast’s legs, remembering the sharp reprimand his backside had sustained following the last horse he had accidentally mislabled. “…noble _sir_ …” he whispered, reaching out a hand and scratching the stallion’s soft cheeks.  
  
_WHAM!_  
  
Jaskier staggered forward, falling face-first into the mat of straw under his feet, his ears ringing and spots dancing in his vision. His head swam dangerously as he struggled to push himself up with his hands. He felt strong hands grasp the shoulders of his doublet and jerk him roughly onto his back. A face swam above him; blonde hair…green eyes…but his vision was fuzzy and he couldn’t focus properly. He could see its mouth moving, could hear the man trying to speak but it was muffled as though reaching his ears from under water. He tried to brush the man’s fists away, tried to force words into his mouth, to demand who he was and what was going on but his brain seemed to have short-circuited.  
  
Nie’l’s smile widened as the bard’s lips worked uselessly. A dark red patch of crimson blossomed on his brow where Nie’l had struck him. He’d feel it for a while, but he’d live…  
  
“Witcher working the graveyard shift tonight, bardling?” He hissed, rummaging in a pouch at his belt and procuring a small bottle of a clear liquid and a roll of cotton wrapping. The bard blinked desperately, eyes struggling to hone in on Nie’l’s face. Nie’l smiled, removing his fists and allowing his own eyes to drink in every last detail of the rather pathetic bag of flesh before him. He sighed resignedly; If he must, he must…  
  
Jaskier’s eyes bulged suddenly as the face before him began to twist and bubble horribly. Blonde hair shortened, thickened, darkened; eyes previously the color of emeralds dissolved quickly into a sea of blue; cheeks softened, nose rounder, lips fuller…until he was staring, _utterly horrified_ into his own reflection. His mouth worked thickly, attempting to summon a shred of moisture to his tongue as his doppleganger leered maliciously down at him.  
  
“…the _fuck_ areyou…?” He managed croakily as the sounds of ripping fabric and the trickle of liquid being poured cut through the ringing in his ears.  
  
“You worst nightmare…” the other man whispered, bringing the cloth to his face, and suddenly Jaskier was falling…his vision failing entirely as he floated away into a sea of black.


End file.
